I'm not writing this.  I'm not.  I have two other WIPs that my agent thinks have great, good potential that I need to finish.

But I woke up this morning and there was this idea.  (Not entirely new; I was going to use it with Rosetta in FREEFALL, but I went a different direction with her.)  It's been distracting me all goddamn day.  So, I wrote one scene.  And I know where it would go from there.  I know all the characters and most of the backstory.  The only thing I'm not sure of is how it would end.  It's one of those situations where as a writer, I want to show the character overcoming, but the reality and fall out of such a situation would be so very messy that I don't know how I'd pull it off. 

Ah, well.  It doesn't matter right now because I need to accomplish other things before even thinking about pursuing it. 



I’m in bed, in the darkness, under the covers.  Rhys is beside me kissing my neck and earlobes, and rubbing his hands over my chest.  My heart is beating, beating, beating.  I’ve never let him go this far.  He lifts my shirt and lowers his face to my breasts.  I can barely breathe.  I want him to do more, and even though I don’t tell him so—I don’t say anything at all—somehow he figures it out. He slides his hand gently down my shorts, into my panties.  I shift my legs and hips to make it easier for him. 

I’ve been wishing I could do this with him for so long.  Now it’s happening.  It. Is. Heaven.  My whole body is on fire in the best possible way.  Especially there.  Right there, where he’s touching me now.  I want him so badly.  I want him to feel this good, too.  I tug at his boxers.  He sighs. 

In that very instant, the spell is broken. 

As I start awake, the magical, floaty, buzzy warmness is replaced with something cold, something wrong, something I do not want. 

I’m still in my bed.  This is all still happening.  But not with my boyfriend.  With him.     

I keep my eyes shut.  I don’t need to see to know; I can smell his cologne, hear his breathing.  My hands, my limbs, my body fall limp and heavy.  Maybe if I don’t move, he’ll think I’m still asleep.  

He keeps doing what he’s doing.  Soon, this will be over.  I hold my breath.

And then it is over.  A strong pulsing takes over my whole body.  I’m filled with elation for a split second as the release washes through me.  The feeling is quickly replaced by an overwhelming flood of shame, guilt, and self-loathing. 

He can feel that it happened.  I always try not to move or tense up, but he always knows anyway. 

Taking his hand away, he stands, kisses my forehead, and tucks my blankets around me before leaving my room and closing the door softly behind him.

I press my pillow over my face to stifle my sobs, and wish—not for the first time—that it were possible to suffocate myself.